


The Secrets of Past Lives

by Winterstar



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, descriptions of violence, destitute conditions, disturbing descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>answer to a prompt at ljwhitecollar hurt comfort community: AU - Peter didn't catch Neal the way he does on the show; he regains Neal's trail after having lost him for several months, finding him in a certain fleabag motel in New York, dangerously sick and clearly having been unwell and underfed for quite a while…..see original prompt here: <a href="http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/19850.html#comments">http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/19850.html#comments</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – not mine, never was or will be. Happy to play for nothing.

 

Prelude  
Echoes of past lives whisper through the air.

He stares as Rice goes over the case; his gut clenches as he watches Neal for any signs. None are present, of course. Neal is a consummate confidence man. He can play any part, take on any role. He sheds skin like a snake. His confidence shines in perfect opposition to Peter’s hidden fears.

The echoes reverberate; seem to shake the floor under his shoes.

The secrets are there of past lives – of what was required in conflict with what was right.

The secrets persist of past lies – of duty and loyalty against compassion and forgiveness.

The secrets will bring him to ruin.

PART 1 – Before  
As he opens the door, the hinges creak in protest. Peter studies the crumbling, faded architecture of the once grand building. The stench of sweat and urine hits him and burns his nostrils when he enters the lobby. He makes his way across the stained carpet, noting the tattered curtains, and ripped, sagging furniture.

His intel has to be wrong; the place reeks of the destitute, the lost ones of society. He cringes when he spies a woman sitting in one of the filthy chairs near the front desk. Her eyes are dazed but she’s still aware enough to slip a hypodermic needle under her shirt as if to hide it from prying eyes - his prying eyes. He stands out; his suit, his carriage, everything about him screams federal agent. The few people in the lobby back into the shadows of the dank room.

Ignoring them, he approaches the front desk. He shouldn't be here without backup, but he is sure his sources are wrong. This cannot be the place. There is no way. His prey loves the best places, dares crown princes in games of cards and flies first class paid only with a dazzling smile. He hits the bell on the desk and waits for the man watching a small television set to put down his soup he's slurping from the opened can.

"Yeah?" The man is really more of a boy; his frame thin, tall and rail like and his features gaunt and hollow. He thinks sixteen, possibly seventeen. Something aches in Peter as he watches the kid pull out a cigarette to light it.  
  
Peter takes out the photograph and puts it on the counter. "Have you seen this man?" He places his badge next to the picture. It glitters against the nicked and grime laden wooden surface.

The boy startles when he sees the badge but recovers and points to the photo. "Yeah, he's in room 2B." Turning he grabs the duplicate key and slides it over to Peter. "Don't make no mess, I ain't got no good staff to clean up after no feds."

"You're sure? This man?" Peter points to the photograph. The lines, the sculpted face with startling blue eyes stare back, captured in his most capricious of moments.  
"It's what I said, ain't it. Him, he's in room 2B. I ain't seen him in days but he came in on Saturday, got the key and went upstairs." The kid points to the narrow staircase. "Go on and see if you want. I ain't here to escort you around."

There's grumbling behind him and Peter considers whether he should call for back up now that he has some confirmation. He peers over his shoulders and the hunched figures pause for a moment. There is a space where time stops as Peter and the two men size one another up. The spell is broken when the boy behind the counter says, "He ain't one of the regulars. That room is usually rented by the dentist."

"Dentist?" Peter turns back to the boy. He notices the stubble posing as a beard covers an aggravated case of acne.

The boy just shrugs and looks to the staircase as if to invite Peter to investigate. He nods and crosses the room without a glance to the men huddled in the lobby. He breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes no one follows him. Once again, he weighs whether or not he should call for back up. He's sure now, though, that the tip was erroneous. Some dentist has rented the room. Why his prey landed here is still a mystery but Peter thinks he's safe to take a peek at the room to find clues.

As he mounts the last step he notices an out of order elevator with no car sitting open. He shakes his head and searches the floor. Some doors are locked with noises both innocuous and not emanating from the rooms. He continues down the hallway and finds 2B. The door is a jar.

He knocks once but there is no answer. With a slight push of his shoulder, the door whines and he surveys the room. There is a bed to the side of the room. Clothes and blankets are heaped on the bed. The window near the bed is open letting in a cold stream of air. The fresh air, even the city air is a blessing since the overwhelming odor of something rotting mixes with the generally tainted smell of the motel and makes his eyes water. He slips into the room and scans his surroundings. There is no television, but a lamp near the bed. The shade is torn and crooked as if someone tried to turn on the light but failed. The carpet is thread bare and it catches on his heels as he walks across the room.

He has his gun clenched in his hand and his belly twists. He keeps the wall to his back and goes to examine the small bathroom. A trail of blood stains both old and new lead the way. He grimaces half way to the bathroom. He should call, damn it. He should call for back up. He chokes down a gag as the smell in the room intensifies when he passes the bed. Wads of bloody red gauze litter the rug and make a path to the bathroom. He shoves the door open with his gun and looks inside. Blood drips from the cracked porcelain sink. Long red brown stains stream like a river over the curve of the bowl and onto the floor. It looks like someone was trying to treat a wound - a very bad wound. There's a receipt on the tiled floor next to a discarded bag from a local pharmacy. Medical supplies scattered from the bag clutter the floor. He kicks the bag away and examines the receipt. The date on the receipt is stamped Saturday. It is Tuesday. Four days ago. The kid at the corner said the man in the photo had been here on Saturday.

Is this a murder scene? Had he come here to kill the dentist?

No, that didn't fit his M.O. None of this did. The puzzle pieces don't fit. It feels like he has several different puzzles jumbled together and he has to figure out which pieces go with which puzzle. He turns around and starts back to the main room when he hears a slight intake of breath followed by a rasp of a moan.  
He clutches his gun and swing around to the bed. The pile moves and he realizes it isn't a mountain of clothes and blankets - but blankets and a man. A man suffering with glazed eyes and pasty skin stares at him. His eyes look too big for the sunken flesh of his face. Sweat smears over his face, plasters his dark locks to his forehead.

He cannot see, Peter realizes as he grinds his teeth and says, "Moz?"

The blanket falls away as the man shifts on the bed and groans against the pain. His right thigh is exposed and Peter glimpses the attempted first aid taped to the leg. It seeps blood but nearly gags him as he moves closer. The smell – the rotting flesh – oozes from the wrecked flesh.

He takes a step closer and the man shuffles up toward the head of the bed. His glossy eyed gaze still blind to Peter’s identity yet leery. “Friday, I came to Friday.”

Peter knows the man isn’t dangerous, not in this state but remains vigilant. He points the gun at the criminal’s chest. “Hands in the air.”

For the first time the man focuses and fear startles him into action. He tumbles from the bed, grabs hold of the window sill as if he might launch himself to freedom. Peter crosses the room in two strides and blocks his way.

“You don’t want to do that,” Peter says. The gun hasn't dropped. Peter won’t hesitate.

A tremor shivers through the man as he grasps at the window frame. In a bare and whispered voice, he says, “Peter, help me.”

He collapses to the floor, unconscious and vulnerable. There is something destroyed about him. His filthy hair, the damaged leg wound, the fevered flesh. Peter touches the pocket with his phone but stops and listens.

He is not unconscious, Peter realizes. Tears wept in silence christen his face as he begs, “Help me.”

Dropping to one knee, Peter reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder. He promises, “I’m here, Neal, I’ll help you.”

TBC  



	2. Chapter 2

Interlude  
He closes his eyes to shut out the image of Neal frozen on the screen. Given over as ransom to save a girl, Neal had been missing for nearly twelve hours. They found him, though, outside a travel agency. Peter can no longer deny it, though, and he opens his eyes again to stare at it. The concern etched over Neal's features, the harassed look does not disguise the fear lurking underneath that Peter detects. The monitor's image gives nothing back to him, but a cold feeling spreading through his veins, his nerves.

The words continue to echo releasing secrets from their hidden depths.

The last time he saw Wilkes - 'when was the last time you saw Wilkes, Neal'. 

The pause haunts him and builds the tension as Neal answers - 'when he tried to kill me'.

The secret between them remains, untouched yet potent and pulsating like an open wound, like an infection. They both leave it behind that day, but now it bleeds out before him.

Neal's life is in the hands of his tormentor, and Peter's life is poised on the edge of a secret. 

Part 2: During  
His hands shake as he readies the needle. He learned how to do this years ago, but practice at Quantico feels like a different universe when faced with reality. The needle slips into the vein easily; he feels the slight tug then release indicating that he's in and slides it further into the vessel. A quiet moan issues from his patient, but he only pats his shoulder and whispers for him to settle.

Perspiration beads across his forehead and he wishes he could open a window to cool his guest bedroom. He cannot; the fever ravaging Neal's body is bordering on critical. He wars with himself as he continues his work. Neal should be in a hospital, not stretched out on his wife's good down comforter in their spare bedroom. In very little time, Peter could have a dead man on his hands and the entire wrath of the Bureau on his head. 

He opens up the intravenous line and allows the antibiotics to flow. He has connections, ways to get things he needs including medical supplies. He knows if this goes wrong, if Neal dies on him, he won't be able to explain his actions to any reasonable person, least of all Hughes. He doubts he has enough clout in the Bureau to stop the loss of his badge and possibly his freedom. He’s putting his life, his relationship with Elizabeth in jeopardy.

Cursing under his breath, he peels open the bandage on the bullet wound. Neal had been lucky. It was a clean shot, hitting soft tissue but not cracking bone, and exiting without massive damage. The problem still remains, a raging infection that heated his leg and burned him with fever. Peter debrided the wound but he had to relent to give Neal some of the Percocet he'd taken some months back for shoulder surgery. Washing away the layers of grime and dirt, cleaning out the festering bacteria nearly sent him over the edge. He had to stop and walk away several time to ease the need to vomit. 

After he had finished his work on the main wound, he had examined Neal and found boot marks across his torso, bruised ribs and probably a crack or two there. He used his field medicine knowledge to its maximum. He bound up the ribs and washed away the filth.

Neal remains pliant and murmurs softly in his troubled sleep. He repeats that he found Friday even though Peter assures him it is Tuesday. He opens his eyes and stares at Peter; there is no recognition. He only whispers names Peter does not know. He feels like he is intruding, like he is a peeping tom looking into a window and watching someone else's life unfold before him. Neal never cries for his mother. 

Peter covers the man and walks out of the room. He grabs onto the bannister of the staircase and damns himself. What the hell is he thinking? A tremor hits him deep inside and he hangs his head. At least Elizabeth is not here to see him in his stupidity, in his fall from grace. She's visiting her sister upstate and isn't due back until next week. He has time to set this straight, but it is so twisted and contorted he isn't even sure he knows how to find the pathway to making it right.

He hears Satchmo barking in the yard; he needs to bring the dog in. He needs to call the office and tell them he'll be out sick for a few days. Swearing again, he cannot believe he is actually considering doing this, following through and harboring a criminal. He keeps thinking of the wild eyed gaze of Neal's, his broken cry for help. 

Is it because the reputation of the James Bond of the criminal world will be forever tainted if he is brought in, arrested, beaten, wounded and bloodied? Or is it because Peter cannot stand to think of giving up the challenge of Neal Caffrey? Or is Peter so vain he wants the take down to be spectacular and reliant on his assumptions and fine strategy instead of a tip given to him by one of his most unreliable sources?

None of these reasons seem to fit. He tugs at his tie and pulls his collar open. A button pops off and flies down the stairway. He ignores it. No, he thinks, it is none of these. 

The answer blinds him as he gazes into the stream of sunlight breaking through the front door window. It is none of these reasons. It is simple and it is right - damn protocol and law and requirements.

Neal deserves better. 

Something about the kid tells him, he deserves more than what he's been given in life. Something's cheated Neal; something's scraped away at his sense of right and wrong. Peter feels as if one good offering might change the course of Neal's life, might make him reconsider, might save him one day. He thinks if the world would show Neal there are better ways to live, to use his talents, he might take a risk and chance a normal life. Peter would like to be there, someday, when Neal makes that choice.

This is a first step.

He tries not to question his decision again throughout his vigil by Neal’s side during the rest of the day. Neal drifts in and out of consciousness and Peter wonders how long it has been since he’s been fully aware. Even as he dragged Neal from the hell of the motel room, he slipped and fell into a fogged state. It amazed Peter how trusting Neal was when he picked him up from the heap on the motel room floor. How he gave over his life so easily to Peter. He wonders if Neal has ever truly trusted anyone in his life.

By evening Neal wakes long enough for Peter to offer him water. He drinks it as if he is on fire and Peter thinks he literally is. When Neal slumps back into the bed again, his gaze is weary and drained. He glances at Peter as if he might say something, ask a question but instead he closes his eyes and turns away. His body shivers in response and he fists his hands against the pain.   
Peter grasps his hand and uncurls the fingers, feeling the tension. He tries to rouse Neal again as the strength in Neal’s hand relaxes, but unconsciousness claims him again.

He stays for the rest of the day into the night. Neal continues to mumble and claw at the sheets throughout the twilight. Peter changes his dressing after he cleans the wound again. When the phone rings a little after eight o’clock, Peter convinces himself it is Hughes telling him the FBI is coming to arrest him. Instead, he finds Elizabeth on the line.

After the pleasantries, Elizabeth finally says, “Hon, you’re distracted. What’s up?”

“Distracted? No, no. I’m not distracted.” He stands in the doorway of the guest room, watching the street lamp’s glow filter in through the window. The light casts a hue over the sleeping occupant of the bed. It softens the harsh lines and the shallow look of Neal’s features. The kid has been through hell in the last few weeks.

“Is the game on? I didn’t think there was a game tonight,” Elizabeth is saying.

He jumps back to the conversation at hand. “No, no game, just lots of work. Working.”

“It’s Neal, isn’t it?” 

“W-What? Caffrey? No.”

“You’re not working on his case file now?” Elizabeth says.

“No, yes. I mean, yes I am working on it, but not sure how it is going yet.” He frowns. She has an uncanny sense of his state of mind, even hundreds of miles away.

“Okay, then since you’re distracted,” Elizabeth starts.

“Not distracted.”

She giggles a bit and says, “If you say so, hon. Love you, talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you, too.” 

In moments, Peter is left alone listening to the dial tone. He turns the phone off and walks back into the room. He wishes he could have spoken to Elizabeth, could have told her about it, could have asked what she would do. He considers what Elizabeth would do and walks back into the room.

He sits down in the chair next to the bed and waits. He knows what his wife, his loving wife would do. He follows her lead and remains with Neal throughout the night. Peter holds onto Neal’s hand when the fever battles his sanity, when the pain overcomes him and he wants to cry. He stays the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Interlude II  
After Neal leaves with his anklet securely locked in place, Peter works late that night. Neal is safe from Wilkes, the Gless girl is home. All is right. He lets out a sigh and sits back in his chair. Spinning around, he settles to watch the night lights glimmer over the city. The glow mimics the sky above and it seems to Peter that the stars dimmed in the heavens above by the city lights have dropped down and shine from the streets and buildings. New York City has stolen the heavens. He smiles and decides it might be time to call it a day, a night, whatever. When he starts to wax poetically, he knows it is time to just surrender for the day. Elizabeth is waiting.

He packs up and, as he leaves his office, looks back one more time at the city. It holds secrets but it glitters and the shine hides all its faults and promises. He nods and turns off the light in his office, departing the sanctity of the Bureau for the day.

As he opens his car door once he's entered the garage, he considers if he should check in on Neal. No, he won't do that, not tonight, not now. Trust has to build somewhere. Making a foundation begins with the simplest task - believing in the solidity of the ground beneath your feet. He smiles, yes definitely time to go home.

The ride is quiet and slow, but he makes it on time to say good night to Elizabeth before she drifts off to sleep. He turns off the light and leaves the bedroom. Stopping at the top of the staircase, he glances at the empty guest room. Images of those moments years ago materialize and he recalls Neal’s fractured cry as the pain cut through him. He looked so young and so broken, Peter thinks, he may have made the right decision - though there have been times throughout the years, he has thought differently.

There is a light knock on the door and Peter leaves his thoughts behind to go downstairs and answer it. 

It is Neal.

They stare and say nothing.

There is a nod between them, acknowledging the past; the secret is still concealed and unspoken between them. 

Neal offers his hand, Peter takes it. The seal remains unbroken.

Part 3: After  
What startles him awake is the suppressed moan and a yank at his hand. He shifts and releases his hold when he sees Neal struggling to sit up. He's blinking and squinting at Peter as if the light from the new day hurts his eyes. His fever broke half way through their second day together, but Neal slept most of the rest of the hours. It is early Thursday morning. 

It takes a moment for Neal to recognize him; there are questions in his eyes but he doesn't ask them. Instead he says, "Need the bathroom."

Peter leans over and gathers Neal over his shoulder to help him down the narrow hall. They’ve done this before but he doubts Neal remembers since he was dazed with fever. Half way there, Neal sways and nearly topples over, but a hand to his chest steadies him. Neal throws his hand out and braces himself against the wall. Peter stops and allows him time to settle as the pain eases away.

"Okay?"

Neal nods and they make their way to the bathroom. There is a moment of awkward silence as Neal hops into the room and Peter stays at the threshold, then Neal flicks the door closed and Peter waits. He stands in the hall, wondering what the hell he is going to do with a freshly aware con-man in his house. Damn it, what was he thinking?

It seems to take forever, and that leaves Peter considering his motives and why and where and what he should do. All things he has been trying to avoid the last few days, but now are prominent urgent issues.

Neal opens the door to the bathroom and turns the light off. He has cleaned up his face and his hair is damp. Peter didn't hear the shower; perhaps he should offer him a shower, new clothes. Damn, what is he thinking?

"I'll get out of your way now," Neal says and turns toward the stairs. He weaves a bit and, if it isn't for Peter's arm clutching him, he would plummet down.

"I think you can stay a bit longer."

"Just a bit," Neal says, obviously strained from the short walk to the bathroom and the clean up. 

When they get to the bedroom, Neal drops on the bed and sits with his shoulders slumped. He looks up at the discarded intravenous line, the empty bags of antibiotics littering the floor, and considers Peter. "A man of many talents, Agent Burke."

"I have quite a few," Peter says and helps him back onto the bed, lifting his wounded leg onto the pillow. Neal groans and holds onto the side of his torso. Cracked ribs will do that to a person.

"Yes, you are a man of mystery," Neal says and Peter thinks he might ask him why, but he doesn't. He regards him with a critical eye as if Peter is a painting that Neal is systemically taking apart to understand the methodology of its creation. "Great mysteries," he adds after a moment.

"Rest," Peter says. "I'll get you something to eat."

For a moment it looks like Neal might protest but it dies on his lips when he lifts his head and falls back defeated by his own weakness. Peter waves him off and goes to make him some soup and tea. He figures the kid hasn't eaten in weeks. When he was taping up his ribs, he noticed the depleted look of Neal's muscle and body tone. The kid had been held and tortured; that much was clear. By whom, Peter wanted to know. Neal usually ran in circles Peter would normally call the criminal gentlemen's world. He wonders who Neal pissed off and how to get beaten, starved and shot.

Satchmo sits by him as he stirs the soup. He frowns at the dog. "This is between you and me, boy. I'll give you the leftovers if you don't rat me out."

The dog whines and licks his lips. It is enough for Peter to give the dog a double take before he finishes up the soup, ladles it out and set up the tray with the tea, crackers and the bowl. Climbing the stairs, Peter tells Satchmo to stay to no avail; the dog follows his nose. By the time he enters the spare room, Neal has fallen asleep; it is a restful slumber so Peter decides not to bother him. He sets the tray aside, sits and picks up his book to read. After only a half hour, Peter is interrupted by Neal.

"Nice dog," Neal comments. Satchmo is guarding the tray with the food on it near the end table.

Peter chuckles and says, "Satchmo would win best guard dog if it was all about the food." Neal smiles but his eyes drift back to the tray and a yearning moves over his features. "It's probably cold now, do you want me to heat it up."

"No, no, please I don't mind," Neal says as he pushes himself up into the pile of pillows. His eyes look like huge blue stains within the hollows of his face. He's seen those horrific pictures of starving kids in developing countries, the hunger in Neal's eyes is nothing like that despair, but the eagerness kicks him in the gut, makes him realize how frail and on the edge of society some people live.

He situates the tray on a pillow next to Neal, but has to reprimand Satchmo when he attempts to get on the bed. The dog sulks off. Before Peter can close the door on the dog, Neal has half the soup eaten and all of the crackers. He moves off and goes downstairs to make a sandwich which he silently hands Neal on a plate when he returns.

"Who did this to you?" His hands are on his hips as he stands over Neal.

"Why am I not in jail?" Neal counters.

"Touche," Peter says. He moves off and sits in the chair as Neal eats the last of the sandwich. "Really, Neal, whoever did this is a menace. He's dangerous."

Neal smiles. "Not anymore."

"You killed him?" The world zones in and out for a moment. Maybe Neal Caffrey isn't who he thinks he is.

"What?" Neal drops the crust of the sandwich. "No, Agent Burke, I didn't kill him." He lowers his gaze then looks back up. There is a smirk hidden under his carefully sculptured neutral expression. "Let's just say he has a lot less assets and people to work with than he normally does."

"You conned him?" Peter asked. "And he beat the crap out of you and tortured you."

Neal sips the tea and makes a spinning motion with his index finger. "The other way around. He tortured me first, and then I made sure he had a little less assets to work with."

"He'll come for you again," Peter notes. "You're in danger."

"I'm in the custody of a federal agent. I don't think so."

"You're not in my custody, Neal." Peter crosses his arms and realizes the gesture telegraphing his closed state on the subject.

Neal tilts his head; the smile - that confidence man smile lurks near the surface. "Interesting, Peter Burke. And what are you looking for? A nice too expensive piece of jewelry for your lovely wife? Or would you like a bit of cash to set up your early retirement."

Blood warms his face and he glares at Neal like he's turned into a devil. He jumps up and jabs at him with his finger. "What the hell are you talking about? What are you accusing me of, you little-." It occurs to him in the middle of his rage that Neal might not understand that some people do things for altruistic reasons, not to get something. It isn't always a bargain. He deflates. "I don't want anything from you, Neal. I'm not even sure I'm asking you to turn yourself over into my custody."

Neal sets the tray aside and studies him. "Should I be asking for my lawyer?"

"Not if you don't want us both arrested."

"Okay, deal, I think," Neal says. His face pales as he sinks back into the pillows. The force of the discussion has sapped him of his energy. 

"Rest a little more," Peter says but grabs the bottle of antibiotics. "Take one of these, best after you eat something. Won't upset the stomach as much." He hands Neal the pills.

He glances at the intravenous line hooked up to a nail scavenged from a discarded framed photo on the floor. "Should I ask where the medical supplies came from?"

"Best not," Peter says and drops the pills into his open palm. 

Neal downs the pills and closes his eyes. "You are a surprise, Agent Burke."

Peter stands over him and waits; his sleep is nearly immediate. Peter reaches down and cups a hand over his forehead. He still feels a little warm to Peter but he's no longer in danger. The oral medication should relieve the rest of the infection but he will need stitches and while Peter has some medical knowledge his expertise does not extend that far. 

He keeps repeating to himself as he leaves the room, one step at a time, Burke. The problem is, he has no idea what the next step is.

For the next day, Neal sleeps, and only wakes to eat and take medication. They do not talk again that day, and Neal spends most of his time alone in the spare room as Peter weighs the possibilities. If Neal would tell him who did this to him, if the perpetrator is someone important, Peter might be able to cut a deal for Neal. There are possibilities, but he knows he'll have to sacrifice his reputation for some of them. He is slightly aghast that he is fine with the repercussions. 

When he brings dinner to Neal, he finds the con-man curled up on the bed with a copy of one of Elizabeth’s art history books. His nose is nearly pressed to the page as he examines a painting. Peter sets the tray down and tells Neal to roll over so he can check his wound. It surprises Peter that in certain things Neal is so compliant.

He looks away as Peter opens up the gauze, tugging at the tape. He cleans the wound with some more antiseptic, but he’s pleased no further infection has manifested in the hole. He checks the exit wound and gives that a positive report as well. Glancing up at Neal, Peter sees Neal panting through clenched teeth. The brilliance of his pain is written on his face. He keeps his eyes closed as Peter finishes up his task of changing the bandages. 

“Dinner?” 

Neal makes a low note of acceptance but says nothing. 

“Okay?” Peter asks.

“Yes, sure.” His words come out breathy and small. Peter sets him up with the tray and gathers his meal and waits as Neal starts to eat. “Are you going to eat?”

“Already did.” He sits down in the chair and opens the bottle of beer he brought. He thinks it would be nice to put on a small buzz, but knows that is an impossibility.

Once Neal begins to eat, Peter says, “He’ll kill you next time.”

Neal shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re awfully confident for a man whose just been tortured and starved for, what was it two or three weeks?” The beer dangles from his fingers.

“It was two, but who’s counting?” Neal shrugs his shoulder and regrets it. He bends over his bruised ribs and holds on as the pain shivers through him. Peter watches the muscles vibrate against the tremor. “He understands commodities, and once he comes to his senses he’ll realize he’s better off with me alive.”

“You worked with him?”

“Tried to, our styles are different.” Neal continues to eat. The pot roast is pulling a disappearing act. “Don’t worry, Peter, I might be a lot of things but I’m not into physical violence.”

“But you are into art?” Peter lifts the bottle to indicate the art history book.

He grins. “I have some talent.”

“I would say so,” Peter nods.

“Do I need my lawyer?” Neal asks again as he drops the fork. The plate is nearly clean. 

Peter drinks down the last of the beer then answers, “Not now, Neal. For now, it’s just you and me.”

“Why? What’s in it for you?” 

The glow in the room from the lamp reminds Peter of stage lighting. The circle of light surrounds Neal, making him the central figure in the room. Peter feels like an auxiliary, or a supporting cast member. This is always how it is for Neal, Peter realizes. The spotlight is always on him; he is the focus and the center of every stage, every scene. He relishes it, Peter knows yet he recognizes for once Neal has to understand the ramifications, the long term consequences.

“Maybe, it’s just a little intervention on my part for you,” Peter says. He leans forward, both hands clasping the beer as he places his elbows on his knees. “I’ve seen what you can do Neal, I know your talent. What you have to offer isn’t the con, but something better. I wonder why you don’t see it.”

“Things aren’t that simple as black and white, Agent Burke. Not everyone has the American dream,” Neal says. “What I do fits; it fits who I am.”

“Then you’re selling yourself short, Neal.”

Neal laughs and goes to move the tray off the bed. Peter jumps up to help him. He holds the tray as Neal leans back on the bed. 

“You are a very difficult man to read, Peter.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Peter says as he exits. He stops and looks back at Neal. “Get some sleep, Neal. Think about it, you deserve better. I don’t know why or what happened to you, but I can read a person, pretty well. You’re something better than a con, a fake.”

He leaves then to clean the kitchen, feed the dog. In the quiet of the night, Peter takes Satchmo for a much needed walk. He always feels as if the dog is short changed when Elizabeth isn’t around to mother the pup. The night chills him; he keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets with Satchmo’s leash tied around his right fist. By the time he returns, his ears and nose are freezing. He feels the nip of winter in the air. 

He closes the door and locks it, but as he turns knows he’s made a mistake. There is a note tucked behind the newel post of the railing. Deep in his chest, he aches as he flips open the paper.

The handwriting is beautiful and strong at the same time. The words are simple yet punch him hard in the gut. He folds the paper and slips it into his pocket. He goes back to work the next day and says nothing to his fellow agents. 

The secret is safe.

Denouement  
Peter and Neal spend little time talking of what happened. They have a glass of wine and sit in silence before Neal begs off and thanks Peter. It is later in the night when Peter watches Neal leave that he retrieves the years old letter. He opens it and reads it as if it is an echo to a dream or a prelude to the future.

He touches the lettering and smiles.

“Someday. Someday, Peter, I’ll stay.”

He lets out a sigh but it is not one of pain or angst but of satisfaction. The secret holds its power but their bond is unbreakable.

THE END


End file.
